Chapter Sixteen
When Merewyn awoke it was to see slivers of silvery daylight spearing between the planks that made up the walls of the boathouse. She knew a brief moment of panic at the unfamiliar surroundings, then relaxed when she recalled where she was. And who she was with.
Mathios still slept, his breathing low and even behind her. His hand still rested on her breast, his fingers curled around the soft lower curve. At some stage he must have drawn the furs up and around the pair of them because she was warm and the fur tickled her nose.
She stretched, her limbs stiff from sleeping in a strange position. Her bodice tightened, pressing her husband’s hand against her breast in a manner she found quite delightful. Soon they would have to return to the festivities, seat themselves upon those great chairs in front of their longhouse and be feted by her husband’s people. His family, friends, the Jarls of neighbouring settlements would clamour to wish them well and share in the celebrations. But not yet. Not quite yet…
“Mathios, are you sleeping…?”
No answer.
“Mathios? Are you awake?” She wriggled her shoulders against his solid chest. “Jarl…?”
“By Odin’s balls, can you not keep still, woman?”
“It is morning. We must go back soon.”
“I think not.” He moved his fingers, as though only now recalling where his hand was situated. “Does this bodice open?”
“I believe it does, my husband. Shall I…?” She could think of no better way in which to prolong this precious time together.
Mathios waited patiently while she fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings. She managed to loosen the silver brooch but he had to release the lacings at the back. Eventually the front of her beautiful blue gown gaped open and Mathios tugged it down to her waist to reveal her breasts. Her nipples were already stiff from the chill in the air but warmed when he fastened his lips around first one then the other.
“That feels wonderful,” she sighed. “I want… I want…”
“Tell me,” he pressed, his face buried between the soft mounds. “What do you want, little Celt?”
“I want you inside me. Deep, and hard.”
“I can do that.”
“Now. I want you now.”
“Where do you want me, Merewyn?”
“Do not tease me. You know. I just said…”
“You want me to fuck you, and I shall do so. Gladly.”
“Well, then…”
“I shall fuck your arse.”
“My… oh!. Oh…” She was perplexed. Utterly dumbfounded.
“Quite. So now that is clear, and having woken me from a perfectly relaxing and well-deserved slumber, perhaps you would be so good as to present your delightful bottom.”
“Will it hurt?” Despite her astonishment at the suggestion, and utter humiliation at the prospect of what he wished to do to her, Merewyn found herself actually considering the idea. She must be quite mad, she concluded. Or perhaps it was the oddly disturbing way her cunny clenched and dampened when she thought of the forbidden, intimate act.
“Perhaps, a little at first. I intend to be very gentle with you however.”
“How…? I mean, I cannot imagine…” Not entirely the truth. There was nothing much amiss with Merewyn’s imagination.
“You will lean forward and rest your elbows on this bench. If you feel able to assist by reaching back and spreading the cheeks of your arse for me, so much the better. I shall manage the rest.” He leaned to the side and reached under the bench he had pointed out to her. “I have rapeseed oil to hand which I took the precaution of leaving here yesterday. This will ease my entry, and I shall use my fingers to first open your entrance.”
She considered the matter for a few moments, her mind whirling at the explicit nature of his description. “You have done this before.”
“I have.”
“That is a relief, Jarl, for I have not.”
He gave her that lopsided, sensual grin that could turn her insides to water. “I know that. And you know, do you not, that I will never harm you?”
She did know that. Merewyn merely nodded. “Should… should I remove my clothes?”
“You may if you wish, though it will suffice for you to merely lift the back of your gown up out of the way.”
“Very well. I… shall I do it now?”
His grin widened. “I would appreciate it, my sweet Celt. Do you need my assistance?”
She shook her head. “I do not think so.” She shuffled around until she knelt before the bench, then leaned forward to rest her elbows upon it. She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Like this?”
He inclined his head, then raised an eyebrow, “The dress?”
“Yes, I know.” Merewyn reached behind her to grab a handful of the woollen fabric and pulled it forward. That did not work, merely drew the gown tightly across her bottom. She tried again, this time drawing it up the backs of her thighs. The whisper of cool air over her exposed buttocks signalled her success. “Is this better?”
“Much. Now, if we just…” Mathios arranged the fabric in a bunch and laid it over her back in such a manner that she did not have to hold it in place. “There. Perfect.”
Merewyn watched, her anxiety mounting as he poured a little of the oil onto his fingers. He regarded her under his lowered brows. “Are you intending to assist me?”
“I am not sure. I…”
“Face forward, Merewyn.” His tone was soft, and achingly gentle. “Reach back as I told you and part the cheeks of your bottom for me. Then just close your eyes and hold still. You can do that.”
He was right, she could. Surely she could. Merewyn balanced her shoulders on the edge of the bench and stretched her arms back. She sank her fingers into the soft flesh of her bottom and pulled the two globes apart. She believed she might actually die of embarrassment when Mathios moved to kneel directly behind her. The light had strengthened now and cast bright beams to illuminate the interior of the boathouse. He had a perfect view of her exposed arsehole, that private, secret place that even she had never seen.
“Thank you.”
Merewyn was expecting him to touch her, but even so she flinched when his slick fingers circled her tight ring of muscle.
Oh, God. Oh, sweet Jesus. She remained in place by sheer force of will.
Mathios continued to swirl his fingertip around her anus, then started to press on the centre. He was gentle, as he had promised he would be, but insistent also. Her instinctive response was to tighten, to clench and prevent his entry. Mathios tapped her lightly on her upturned buttock.
“Do not fight me, little Celt.”
“I do not mean to. This is difficult…”
“Not so difficult. You have but to obey me. Am I hurting you?”
“No.”
“You are embarrassed?”
“Of course!”
“You will get past that, and find the pleasure beyond.”
He uttered the words with such confidence, such certainty that Merewyn began to believe that it might be so, eventually. But not yet.
Mathios increased the pressure. Merewyn made an effort to relax, though she did not succeed. Perhaps she should beg him to stop, suggest that they return to their guests and abandon this strange, invasive business. She opened her mouth, the words were there, hovering on the tip of her tongue, when her body capitulated and he sank his finger into her arse. Not the entire digit, perhaps as far as the first knuckle, but enough to elicit a startled “Oh!” from her.
“There, it will become easier now.” He withdrew the finger and sank it into her rear hole again, then again. He repeated the action several times as she gasped at the indignity of it all. He withdrew altogether, but only to apply more oil, then he plunged his finger back again. He pressed harder, deeper, sinking more of that questing digit inside her until he had inserted the entire length.
It felt… indescribable. Not pleasurable, not exactly. But not painful either. It was dirty and wicked and forbidden—and glorious because of all of that. A wave of pure lust washed through her and Merewyn wished he would stroke her clitty, just once; that would feel utterly wonderful.
“Please…” She did not know what she wanted to plead for, just… something.
“Merewyn? Are you all right?”
“Yes. No.”
He chuckled and reached beneath her to rub her quivering bud. “And now?”
“Yes!” Pleasure assailed her, pleasure so intense she could only squirm and rotate her hips as her sudden, powerful release swept her senses aside. It was swift, lasted but a few moments, but when she regained her wits, it was to realise that her rear entrance was stretched impossibly tight. Her entrance burned as he drove his fingers in and out. He had slipped a second finger in next to the first whilst she was otherwise preoccupied and now treated her to long, even strokes.
Merewyn started to pant. It was not painful, but the sensation was intense and threatened to overwhelm her. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the moment, or maybe the dazzling degradation of the act but she could not contain her response. Her emotions were shredded, desire merged with humiliation and she sobbed even as she begged him not to stop. Mathios continued to finger-fuck her arse at the same time as he caressed her throbbing clitty to bring her to a second shuddering release. As she soared he withdrew his fingers again, but only to drizzle oil on his hard, thick cock and place the head of that at her entrance.
Even as she dreaded this final humiliation, Merewyn pressed back against him. The head breached her with an ease she had not expected. It hurt now, really hurt. She would have been terrified but for the knowledge that this was Mathios and she was safe. He would take care of her, as he always had from the moment they met.
She clutched at the bench, only now realising that at some stage she had relinquished her grip on her buttocks. When had that happened? No matter, she groaned then let out a small squeal as he sank the entire length of his cock into her narrow channel.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmured. “So tight, so fucking wonderful…”
She was stretching, impossibly tight, indescribably full. Even so, she managed to constrict her inner muscles around him, causing Mathios to groan then land a sharp slap on her buttock. “Be still, wench.”
She might have apologised but could not form a coherent thought let alone words. He drew his cock back, almost out of her, then drove it deep again, right to the root. Merewyn was sure she would lose her wits once more if he continued, but she was past caring.
He shoved his hands under her shoulders and slowly eased her upright so that she settled upon his thighs, impaled on his cock with her legs splayed and trapped on the outside of his.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked her again.
Merewyn could do no more than shake her head.
He eased her back so she leaned her weight on him, then he reached down to lift the fabric of her gown, which covered her legs and his. He lifted it to her waist and rolled it into a rough ball. “Hold this,” he commanded softly.
Merewyn did as she was told, holding the gown up and out of the way as her husband reached around her to part the lips of her cunny. Merewyn peered down over the bundle of blue fabric and watched as he stroked her swollen clitty slowly, deliberately. She writhed on his lap, intensely aware of the thickness of his cock seated deep inside her. He continued to stroke and tug on her pleasure bud at the same time as he drove three fingers into her cunny. Merewyn could take no more. Her body shuddered as wave after crashing wave of pleasure coursed through her body. She was vaguely aware of Mathios’ low growl in her ear as he thrust his cock in and out of her arse. She squeezed, she convulsed, she let out a ragged cry as her arousal peaked, crested, then sent her spinning into oblivion.
Long minutes later her husband slid his cock from her still quivering channel. The wet heat of his semen dribbled down her thighs but she did not care. Mathios rearranged his own clothing quickly, then produced a piece of cloth with which he cleansed her as she lay inert on the pile of furs and bedding. When he was done he took her in his arms again and they lay motionless, silent, absorbing the sensual intimacy of this moment.
Mathios was the first to break the silence. “We must return or they will start to seek us out.”
“I know.”
“If you prefer to remain in the longhouse, I can make your excuses. There is sufficient ale to occupy our guests, no one will mind.”
“I wish to be there, at your side.”
He kissed her tousled locks. “In that case, my sweet Celt, we should set your gown to rights, then seek out Rowena in the hope that she might contrive some way of making your hair respectable.”
“Oh…” Merewyn patted her tangled mane. “Do I look dreadful?”
“You look beautiful, and very well fucked.”
Merewyn sat up. She ached, and when she considered the matter further she found her bottom felt decidedly odd, though not uncomfortable.
Mathios’ smile was warm and on a sudden rush of emotion she flung her arms about his neck. “I love you,” she murmured. “I love you so much it hurts.”
He chuckled and kissed her hair. “I love you too, my Celt.”
* * *
When she was to cast her mind back later, Merewyn found she could recall little of the detail from the early part of the second day of feasting She and Mathios presided over more platters of succulent meats and fish than she had ever seen in her life, interminable drunken squabbles that would break out between the rowdy Vikings, frequent squeals of alarm and sometimes giggles of excitement from females caught up in the lust- and ale-fuelled festivities. Hours passed, they ate a little and drank sparingly, conversed with those who remained sufficiently sober to do so and received the effusive good wishes of all who passed their elevated seats situated close to the tables that still groaned under the unending dishes of food. By midday Merewyn was exhausted but she refused to leave Mathios’ side.
“As your wife I must become accustomed to your Viking traditions and take part in the celebrations. How can I claim to do so if I cannot even manage to find the fortitude to attend my own wedding?”
“It is customary for a bride to spend time with her female relatives. It is their role to instruct you in the art of pleasuring your new husband. Perhaps you could use the time to rest since you please me greatly and I prefer to see to the matter of your education myself.”
“I see. Then perhaps…”
“Ah, here is Rowena.” Mathios summoned his stepmother to their side. “Rowena, could you accompany Merewyn back to the longhouse. She is badly in need of quiet in which to rest. I trust our private sleeping quarters are not occupied by our guests.”
“No, though we may have to pick our way across the main hall with care for there are many slumbering there and little in the way of empty space to put our feet.” She helped Merewyn from her lofty seat and the pair made their way between the raucous groups of still-celebrating Norsemen. Once back in their own home Merewyn saw that Rowena had not exaggerated. There was barely an inch of the earthen floor still visible, almost the entire area was occupied by slumbering chieftains and their followers. Only warriors of the Jarl, the most exalted status in the Viking world, and their wives, thralls, and children were permitted to use Mathios’ own dwelling. The rest, those of the karl class and their kin, found shelter from the stiff easterly wind in the homes of lesser Norse families.
As Rowena had promised, the sleeping quarters Merewyn shared with Mathios were unoccupied. She slipped behind the curtain that divided the narrow chamber from the rest of the longhouse. There was barely enough room for a large pallet and space for some personal items of clothing. Rowena followed and helped her out of her lovely blue gown.
“I shall attend to the stains, beat the dust from this, and freshen it for you. By the time you awaken it will be as new again.”
“Thank you.” Merewyn sank onto the pile of furs. “Perhaps you could wake me in an hour or so.”
Rowena merely smiled and left her to her rest.
Dusk was falling when Merewyn opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was silence from the outer chamber. She rose from the bedding and peeped around the curtain. The room was deserted but for the trio of female thralls who helped Rowena with the domestic tasks. They tended the fire and stirred the huge cauldron. One looked up when the movement of the curtain caught her eye.
“Where is Rowena?” asked Merewyn.
The women regarded each other, then her, with consternation, reminding Merewyn once more that she must learn their tongue for she could not rely on Mathios or Rowena to translate for her.
“Rowena?” she repeated. They would at least know their mistress’s name.
One responded in rapid and incomprehensible Norse. The other shot out of the longhouse, presumably in search of Rowena. Sure enough, Mathios’ stepmother arrived after a few minutes, bearing the blue gown.
“Ah, you are awake. I was on my way to rouse you as the Jarl has requested that you join him to greet our latest guests.”
“There are more people arriving? But I thought—”
“Mathios suggests that you make haste. You will be eager to greet this particular guest.”
“Who…? Oh!” She pressed her hand to her chest as realisation dawned. “Is it Bowdyn? He is here? Already?”
“The party sent by Torsteinn to bring him to Agnartved has been sighted. They are perhaps an hour’s ride away.”
“Does he know? Have they told him that I am here?”
“I cannot say, Merewyn. But I do know that your husband wishes to greet the man with you at his side, so perhaps we could…”
“Yes, yes. I will get ready and come at once.”
Rowena assisted her into the now freshened dress, which was a blessing as Merewyn could not have achieved the feat unaided. Her fingers were leaden, her mind unable to focus on anything but the coming reunion. She dashed from the longhouse before Rowena had time to drape her cloak about her shoulders, causing the older woman to hurry in her wake with the forgotten garment. By the time Rowena caught up with her and fastened the cloak about her shivering form, Merewyn was once more beside Mathios. Her husband drew the cloak about her and assisted her back into her seat.
“I trust you are refreshed? You certainly appear so.”
“Yes, I slept for hours. Rowena said… Is he here yet?”
“They are expected to enter the settlement in the next few minutes. My men made good time and the weather has been clement.” Torsteinn stood behind Mathios’ chair, Deva at his side. Even as he spoke, a clattering of hooves heralded the arrival of several men on horseback. Torsteinn issued a short command to one of his warriors. “They will dismount and leave their horses at the stables, then present themselves before us.”
“Bowdyn too? He will not remain to tend the horses?”
“Not on this occasion,” confirmed the Viking chief.
The four of them—Merewyn and Mathios, Torsteinn and Deva—waited in silence though Merewyn was convinced the entire settlement could hear the pounding of her heart. At last she heard the voices of men approaching, perhaps a half dozen or so, and speaking in the Norse language.
She would have known him anywhere. As tall as the warriors who flanked him, Bowdyn now sported a beard and his features were darker than when she saw him last. He had clearly spent much time outdoors and lacked the facilities to shave. His clothing was plain, serviceable, but decent enough she supposed. In the few weeks she had spent in this land she had witnessed thralls who appeared far less content than her brother now did.
“The thrall, Bowdyn, Jarl. As you commanded.” One of the men gestured to Bowdyn as he bowed to his lord.
Torsteinn gave a curt nod. “You did well. There is food and ale, make yourselves comfortable.”
The warriors strode off to join what was left of the celebrations, heading straight for the closest cask of mead. Bowdyn remained where he was and eyed his Viking master with caution.
“You wanted me?” he demanded, not a trace of servility in his tone.
Torsteinn shook his head. “Not me so much as your new master and his lady. You now belong to Mathios of Agnartved.”
Bowdyn’s eyes narrowed a fraction, the only sign he was at all moved by this shift in his circumstances. He did not so much as cast a glance in the direction of Mathios or Merewyn.
“You are welcome here, Bowdyn of Northumbria.” Mathios rose and went to stand immediately before the thrall. “However, Torsteinn’s words are not accurate. I have decided to make you a free man. No one here is your master.”
Now this did elicit a response. “What the fuck is going on?” Bowdyn regarded the Viking with undisguised hostility and suspicion. “Why have you brought me here?”
“You are here at my wife’s request.” Mathios turned to extend his hand to Merewyn. “My Celt, your brother has arrived.”
Unable to contain herself a moment longer, Merewyn leaped from the chair and rushed past Mathios to greet her brother. An expression of incredulity flickered across his features and she knew he recognised her instantly. Bowdyn had no opportunity to speak before she flung her arms about his waist and clung on. He settled for hugging her, then lifted her from her feet and swung her around.